Moment on a Hillside

Grey, moss grown stone ascending

Ardently towards the cloud;

A wink of sun keeks through a stand

Of heavy, sticky pine and

Water trickles by my feet as still

I rise and breathe the ever softer air.

The only sounds… a car, four miles away,

The burn I walk beside and wind

Embracing me and all in my purview.


The moment, like a thought, consumes

And takes up residence within me.


Winter ice and wind and sparkled grass

and sunshine, warming bitten ears;

and fire-smoke, smells of yesterday;

and fairy lights.


Grey, hail heavy skies and frosted paths,

and steamy words, fogged up hellos ;

and numbness, thaw burnt fingertips

and chilblains.


Broad horizon of an unspent year

looms clean and crisp and welcoming;

and hogmanay sees out the old

in whisky drams.




Like a misshapen [gangrenous] bough,

A gnarled [sea-bone],

We bend to impossibility.

A killing moss

Ever present, ever growing

Ever green, slowly smothers

Each sense.

Pores weep life

The core dries, stiffens

And, involuntarily, cracks.

Obscurely felt;

Boldly endured occlusion.

Time blurs day, becomes day,

Becomes judgment.

What future [foresight]?

The present reckons.

… and

… and overnight, the world grows cold and still, and only moth wings beat the rhythm of sleep.

… and the moon drapes silvered shrouds o’er life, transforming commonplace.

… and in occluded shadows, the unseen people congregate and search for what they’ve lost.

… and violence is done.

… and love is spilled.

… and the cry of a million dreams embraces heaven.

… and an old man smiles in his youth.

… and there, in all my darkest hopes, I leap at each fairy-lit crack in time.

… and all my lives are stirred within me

… and the winds of reverie shake loose his crushed desires.

… and for a brief lifetime the city is mine.

… and he shucks off his imagined bonds, transcending even himself.

… and still the hearts surrounding me speak quiet and true and mark each heavy breath.

… and overnight the dark speaks truth, and false reality slumbers.


Upon the shore a shady nook

is Ariel’s enigmatic realm.

The  myst’ries of her secret niche,

a steersman at the helm of lust

inducing us to come and taste.


What hidden pleasures lie below

those vaporous garments, tempting

onlookers to taste her flesh

and devour the dish before them

with the passion of the damned?


Her siren call, a gentle song

invoking hunger in the breast

of innocents who’s heartless

gaze sees only solitude and sea;

who smell her musk in iodine.


Mariners un-numbered run aground

between her milky thighs

and sleep midst dreams of proffered ecstasy.

Unsated hunger dampened only by

her fathomless, cerulean depths.